


we’ll take it slow (and grow as we go)

by bannerenthusiast



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Aziraphale, Autistic Character, Autistic meltdowns, Chronic Pain, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Depression, Disability, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Pre-Apocalypse, Protective Crowley, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Loathing, Sensory Processing Disorder, Sickfic, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unresolved Emotional Tension, disability acceptance month, disability pride month, i'm gonna make autistic zira a tag if it kills me, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 05:13:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19846300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bannerenthusiast/pseuds/bannerenthusiast
Summary: Even angels have bad days.Or, Crowley comforts his angel when he crashes, when the world becomes too much.





	we’ll take it slow (and grow as we go)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabalafae22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabalafae22/gifts).



> To Jen, for inspiring me with her own wonderful writing and beta-ing this fic. Please give their fics a read [[x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabalafae22/pseuds/fabalafae22)]. Title from the song Grow As We Go by Ben Platt. For more Ineffable Husband songs, see [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3o9psfOod5i7T4ODPWwPhh?si=xzumK1l_SOGYsZWSfIBDkA).

The first thing Crowley notices when he walks into A.Z. Fell & Co. one winter afternoon, coat collar popped and scarf wound around the lower half of his face to stave off the cold, was that the warmth that’s characteristic of the Principality’s bookshop seems to have dimmed. It’s that same warmth that has always seemed to draw the demon to the cluttered and admittedly foul-smelling shop, at least in part [1]. But today, that warmth, the overall aura of familiarity and _goodness_ that the shop exudes is hardly noticeable. 

Crossing the threshold with a faint chime, Crowley shivers at the chilly shop interior and only removes his scarf after a moment’s hesitation. They really did need to get going if they were going to make their reservation [2]. Though, the longer he stood in the bookshop’s interior, the more clear it became that something was off. 

It appeared to the demon that the shop was closed, though that was hardly a surprise: the angel seldom kept convenient hours in fear that someone might actually attempt to make a purchase and steal away with one of his precious books. What _is_ a surprise, however, was the lack of light. Due to the significantly thick layer of grime buildup on the shop’s windows, as well as the perpetual overcast nature of London’s skies, very little natural light enters the old bookshop on any given day. Thus, the angel relies on the soft, easy glow of antique lamps. Without this light, the shop’s characteristic clutter, odor, and added darkness reminds Crowley far too much of Hell for comfort. With a click of his fingers, the lights flicker to life. 

_There_ , Crowley thinks. _Much better._

He strides into the depths of the bookshop and instinctively sniffs the air for the angel’s familiar scent. He follows it to the back sitting room and finds Aziraphale lying prone across the overstuffed fainting couch. 

Well, perhaps prone is not the best descriptor, as it implies a sense of relaxation due to its unconscious nature. In reality, Aziraphale’s soft form lay curled on its side, head of fluffy curls resting atop a folded arm. If Crowley didn’t know any better, he would say the angel was _sleeping_. Though he couldn’t recall having ever known Aziraphale to sleep, not even after the height of Western Europe colonization efforts in the late seventeenth century [3]. At least, he’s never mentioned having tried it. But sure enough, the angel’s eyes are closed, his breathing deep and regular, despite the rather cramped position he’s placed himself in. 

So surprised by the revelation that Aziraphale was, indeed, asleep, it takes an embarrassingly long moment for Crowley to notice the angel's rather deplorable state of dress, which does little to alleviate the sudden and acute spike of anxiety shooting through his heart. Rather than his usual attire that—while more than a few decades out of fashion and featuring far too much tartan for Crowley’s more refined tastes—could at least be considered a well-put-together look well-suited to the angel, Aziraphale currently sports a pair of light grey sweatpants, wool jumper, and what appeared to be _fuzzy socks_ of all things. Crowley couldn’t recall having ever seen the angel wear anything of the sort and was quite surprised to find that Aziraphale even _owned_ a pair of sweatpants. 

Worst of all, though, was Aziraphale’s aura; his golden angelic glow appears faded at the edges, not unlike an old sepia photograph. 

Something was definitely, decidedly, unequivocally _wrong_. 

All hesitation gone, Crowley places a hand on the angel’s shoulder and gives him a hard shake to rouse him. "Angel," he says. When Aziraphale fails to stir, Crowley’s shaking becomes more insistent. “Wake up. _Aziraphale_.” The words are curt but carry a note of desperation [4].

Aziraphale’s brows knit together with a soft, disgruntled sound, lips tugged into a faint frown. Blue-grey eyes slowly open, lids blinking out of sync, and it seems to take a few seconds too long for Crowley’s liking for the angel to process whose legs were currently obscuring his vision. “Cr’wly..?” The word lacks its usual lightness, voice instead deep and gravelly with sleep. It would be endearing in any other circumstance, Crowley couldn’t help but think. 

He breathes a soft sigh of relief and crouches low to better examine the angel’s exhausted features. The base of his spine creaks in protest. “That’s it. Up and at ‘em.” 

Aziraphale breath leaves him in an exhausted sigh, one that bares all of the angel’s 6,000 years, as he sits up. His movements are stiff, as if pained—something which Crowley is no stranger to—and his gaze remains cloudy with confusion as it sweeps over Crowley, whose nose is currently only two inches or so from his own.

“Crowley,” he repeats, head a little clearer than the minute previous. “What’re—” his lips form around a massive yawn, and he turns his head slightly to avoid any potential rudeness on his part. “What are you doing here, my dear? Our lunch date isn’t for several days yet.” 

Crowley’s throat bobs, and the way his insides suddenly freeze over have nothing to do with his weather, nor his cold-blooded nature. 

“It’s today, angel. You asked for me to pick you up, should it get too cold,” he explains, careful to articulate slowly and carefully. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the nearest window. “I’d say this qualifies.” 

He’s met with a slow blink and a proper frown. “That can’t be right. It’s only Tuesday.”

A quick shake of his head. “It’s Saturday, Aziraphale. Are you feeling alright?” Slender fingers twitch in an aborted attempt to check the angel’s temperature, a habit from his days as Nanny Ashtoreth. 

“Oh dear, has it really been that long? I only intended to lay down for a moment or two...” The frown Aziraphale sports is one of confusion―and a moment later, something akin to resignation―more than general upset, something which simply does not sit well with the demon. 

Crowley’s eyes grow wide, panic seizing his throat. Not for the first time, Crowley finds himself terribly grateful to whatever being invented sunglasses. He should find a way to gift them a basket of some sort in the afterlife, wherever they ended up. Heaven, if he should guess.

“Well _obviously_ it’s been quite a bit longer than that,” snaps Crowley, though he immediately feels regret when he sees the way the angel flinches at his tone. “I didn’t― You― You’re acting _weird_ , angel. I didn’t realize you even slept, much less for days at a time.” He huffs, attempts to lighten his tone. “I was under the impression that that was _my_ thing. Quite rude of you to take it.” 

Aziraphale struggles to from the words he needs, for a moment, his eyes cast down towards the rug. “I don’t, usually. Or I never have, until now, that is. At least not for more than a few moments,” he admits in a small voice. 

Crowley’s eye twitches behind his sunglasses, and he stands to his full height with a few soft pops of his spine. “Well, suppose there’s a first time for everything. Why don’t we get you dressed in something more appropriate for a functioning ethereal being and make our reservation? I heard they’ve reintroduced the pappardella to the menu, and they have the valrhona I know you love,” he tempts. If his smile is slightly too wide and stiff, Aziraphale doesn’t comment. In fact, he doesn’t comment at all for an unbearably long moment, one so long that Crowley begins to wonder if the angel had heard him. 

“I…” He swallows. “That sounds lovely. Perhaps another time, though. I’m afraid I’m feeling a tad under the weather bow,” he manages. His lips tic into a nervous, reserved smile too tight around the edges, and Crowley has to fight the urge to scowl. 

“What does that mean, exactly?” 

“Well, it’s a common idiom that’s nautical in origin, I beli―”

_“Yes I’m aware that it’s a saying,_ _”_ Crowley hisses. “But what does it _mean_?” 

Aziraphale seems to shrink, collapse into himself. He swallows hard, as if pained by the action.

Crowley’s irritation fizzles out as quickly as it had flared, leaving only worry in its wake. “What’s wrong, angel?” he asks, voice far softer than before. The ' _what do you need?'_ goes unspoken, but remains just as clear. 

Pale hands twist and grasp at one another as if searching for words that stubbornly remain out of reach. 

Alright, then. Another tactic.

“It doesn’t have to be _Clos Maggiore_ ; we don’t even have to go out. Weather’s dreadful anyway. We could stay here and you could tell me all about the last book you read while I pretend to listen,” he suggests. “I won’t even make fun of whatever it is you’ve chosen to wear.” 

When he receives no response, he forges on. “Or I could find us a case of a ‘41 Cabernet Sauvignon. I’m sure I saw it with the rest of the collection downstairs.” 

Silence. 

Time for more desperate measures, then. 

“How about you show me one of those odious little tricks you love so much, though I loathe to even sink low enough to refer to sleight of hand as _magic_. I’m sure I can miracle up a coin or tw―”

“ _Enough_ , Crowley!” Aziraphale sags with the outburst, the marrionette’s strings cut, and the words are wet and choked, barely able to escape his throat. “Please,” he adds, after a moment, voice nearly a whisper. He heaves a shuddering inhale and draws his knees closer to his chest, arms wrapped snugly around his soft middle. 

The silence of the room―save for soft sounds of Aziraphale gasping, shuddering breaths―was nearly suffocating. Stole the demon’s breath and left him frozen where he stood, thoroughly shocked. His mind struggles to catch up to the situation, to the realization that Aziraphale was _hurting,_ that he was―

Oh. 

A choked sob is wrenched from Aziraphale’s throat, and Crowley’s heart breaks. 

“I don’t— oh, I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me.” The hopelessness and anguish shines clear as crystal in the angel’s voice, tremble as it does. Fingers tangle themselves in white-blond curls. Aziraphale worries his lip, applies enough pressure to draw blood.

Crowley bites back the urge to surge forward, to miracle away the hurt with a press of his lips, to insist that nothing was wrong with Aziraphale, that nothing ever could be. The demon couldn’t remember ever having seen the angel like this, not even after the Spanish Inquisition, either world wars, or any other atrocity over the past six millennia [5]. 

Brows furrow in distress, and each inhale comes shorter than the last as the flood of words rush from his lips. “Everything— it’s been so _much,_ lately. Head office is sending memos by the day, and — and you know how absolutely nerve-wracking those are, especially Gabriel’s [6]. A-and I’ve had the most difficult time with a sudden influx of customers — tr-trying to scare them off. And the blasted _winter festival,_ my goodness, it’s— it’s so _loud_ , at all hours yesterday— or I suppose that was Sunday— or, er, Monday, wasn’t it? Makes reading _impossible_ , so hard to― to stay calm. Oh, I― I’m so terribly sorry, Crowley, I— I don’t, I can’t—” The rest of his words are stolen with a soft sob, as if wrenched from his throat. 

Crowley sits gingerly on the cushion beside his angel. “Can I touch you?” comes the simple question. Aziraphale nods, and Crowley slides an arm around the angel’s shoulder. 

Without a thought and only a slight grimace, Crowley rends a pair of black raven’s wings from the ether, materializes them to lay across his angel’s shoulders. Cradle him, wrap him in what little warmth he could offer. A shiver ripples over Aziraphale as Crowley’s primaries brush against his skin, but once the solid weight of them settle across his shoulders, comfort seeps deeply into the angel’s skin and draws out a heavy, allayed sigh. Aziraphale’s own weight shifts and falls to slump against Crowley’s side, to curl into the demon’s safe, familiar embrace. 

They remain huddled against one another, shielded from the rest of the universe and all its chaos, suspended in a peaceful reality of their own making, something entirely theirs. 

The angel, left drained and raw and aching, simply cries until he had little else to give.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Aziraphale speaks, voice barely a murmur. “I’m so tired, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyes slip closed with a delicate exhale, and he buries his nose in the angel’s curls. Heaves a deep breath, inhales a scent as familiar to him as his own. 

“I know, angel. I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1 The influence of the angel himself was rather minimal, Crowley would argue.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]  
> [2] While Crowley certainly didn’t mind--and in fact routinely enjoyed--leaving others waiting for him, he couldn’t help be rather impatient himself. Patience was a virtue, after all.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return2%E2%80%9D) ]  
> [3] Crowley knows the death toll, upwards of 100 million in the Americas alone, had left the angel quite shaken.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return3%E2%80%9D) ]  
> [4] If ever confronted with an accusation, Crowley will certainly deny it.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return4%E2%80%9D) ]  
> [5] There were, unfortunately, far too many to count.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return5%E2%80%9D) ]  
> [6] Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Crowley finds himself contemplating the difficulty in killing an archangel of Heaven.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return6%E2%80%9D) ]


End file.
